


Clarification

by BloodFromTheThorn



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Friendship/Love, Gen, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 09:28:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20043715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodFromTheThorn/pseuds/BloodFromTheThorn
Summary: “I’m sorry about your friend.”The words were soft, murmured mostly into the cushion of Crowley’s couch. Across the room and barely awake enough to still be connected to reality, Crowley could do little more than blink at him.“I’m sorry?” He ventured eventually, once he was sure Aziraphale wasn’t about to expand on the complete non-sequitur.“Your friend,” Aziraphale replied slowly, still not looking at him and sounding, if anything, more morose than he had before. “The one who died.”





	Clarification

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a response to a prompt-esque thing I saw on tumblr here: https://bloodfromthethorn.tumblr.com/post/186636519425/kedreeva-kedreeva-ive-seen-both-sides-of-the 
> 
> Which basically pointed out that Crowley tells Aziraphale he's 'with an old friend' over the phone, and the next time Azriaphale hears from Crowley, he's getting drunk in a bar and tells him that he lost his best friend. Given that they're both dumb as a box of rocks half the time, it seemed like a situation ripe for misunderstanding and so this happened. Enjoy.

“I’m sorry about your friend.” 

The words were soft, murmured mostly into the cushion of Crowley’s couch that he’d jammed under his head when he’d finally given in to the demon’s cajoling and lay down. Across the room and barely awake enough to still be connected to reality, Crowley could do little more than blink at him for a long moment; there’d been a vulnerability there that never failed to catch him off guard, particularly when he hadn’t got the first idea what the angel was talking about.

“I’m sorry?” He ventured eventually, once he was sure Aziraphale wasn’t about to expand on the complete non-sequitur. If it could really count as such, given that they’d been sitting in companionable silence for well over an hour. 

“Your friend,” Aziraphale replied slowly, still not looking at him and sounding, if anything, more morose than he had before. Something in Crowley’s chest ached quietly. “The one who died.”

That was enough to rouse Crowley back to full consciousness with a snap. “Di- Angel, what are you _talking _about?”

When Aziraphale failed to answer him, staring blankly at the coffee table as though there were any answers to be found there at all, Crowley let his feet slide off the edge of his armchair with a thump and turned his whole body to face him. True worry was starting to prick at the corner of his consciousness and damn it, they were supposed to be alright now! They’d faced the literal apocalypse already today! Of course, Heaven and Hell were still looming on the metaphorical horizon and Crowley was certain that they weren’t out of hot water yet, but he’d thought they’d have enough time for a quiet evening’s peace. Was that really too much to ask?

“Angel, you’ve got to give me more to go on than that,” he hissed eventually, trying to keep the concern out of his voice.

For the first time since he’d spoken, Aziraphale’s eyes flicked up to meet Crowley’s. “Your friend,” he said again, as though that explained anything at all. “The one you were with. At least, I assumed it was them, I never got the chance to ask-”

He cut himself off with visible effort, eyes dropping back to the coffee table like an anchor and fixing there. It was clear that he was trying to appear nonchalant, but 6000 years was a long time to get to know a man’s face, and Crowley would recognise Aziraphale’s expression in his sleep - he was hurting, somewhere deep. 

It was that buried emotion that stopped him from snapping, from demanding answers, but only just. Anything that could put that expression on Aziraphale’s face needed to be dealt with immediately and with extreme prejudice, but Crowley could admit his go-to method of brute-forcing his way through their friendship was not always the most effective technique for getting the angel to open up. Instead, he tried to reach for a rationality he wasn’t sure he was built for.

“Okay, let’s go through this. The friend that I was with,” he said carefully, “Which friend was this?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale replied, suddenly verging on sullen. “You didn’t tell me. I called you and you just said you were with an old friend.”

“An old-” Crowley bit down on his own tongue sharply enough that he was momentarily surprised by the taste of his own blood before he vanished the pain with a sharp mental flick. The sudden realisation was only tempered by the fact that he was so annoyed at his own ridiculous blindness.

_Of course_ Aziraphale wouldn’t have put two and two together - all he’d seen of things was an admittedly distraught Crowley hurriedly yelling something about Hell finding out about him on the street outside the bookshop and then had him hang up when the angel was genuinely in need of aid. It was only now that he was confronted by the reminder of it that Crowley even recalled what he’d said when he’d been so focused on the threat in front of him: ‘_Not a good time, got an old friend here.’_

He’d been such an idiot.

“Angel-” He started, faltered, then tried again. He wanted to aim for gentle, but there seemed little point in dressing it up, and he landed somewhere in the neighbourhood of blunt. “That ‘friend’ you think you’re referring to was Hastur.” 

_That_ got Aziraphale’s attention, so much so that the angel sat bolt upright in one sharp jerk. The hair on one side of his head had been matted down by the cushion and the effect was truly something spectacular; Crowley found himself smiling after all. “H-Hastur?”

“The Duke of Hell himself.”

The angel blinked slowly, clearly turning that information over in his head. “Your friend was Hastur.”

“He’s not _actually_ my friend.”

“You said-”

“I said as much as I could in the seconds I had, angel. There wasn’t exactly time for a lengthy explanation.”

A pause. “You hung up because you were in danger,” Aziraphale said eventually, sounding distantly offended.

“I hung up so I could _concentrate_ angel. I could only deal with one thing at a time and Ligur was a puddle of goo on my floor. I hoped that you’d be able to manage without me for a little while.” He tries to say it lightly, but even he can hear that it’s tempered with his own guilt. Maybe if he’d spoken with the angel, it wouldn’t have ended with his discorporation and a bookshop turned to ash. Demons might be unforgivable by nature, but Crowley knew that particular failing was going to be a mark against his name forevermore. 

Aziraphale frowned softly, the last of his melancholy falling away only to be replaced with the sort of fond concern Crowley had been so afraid was lost to him forever. “You could have asked for help.”

“With Hastur watching my every move? Yeah, that would have gone down a treat.”

“You could have used one of your codes then,” the angel insisted, brow furrowing. “Something that said Hell had come for you and you needed my help.”

“I don’t think we have a code word for that.”

“Maybe we should.”

Honestly, given the way the apocalypse had just gone down, that actually wasn’t a terrible suggestion. Crowley made a mental note in the back of his mind and forcibly changed the subject. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been moping all evening because you’ve been mourning for my dear old friend Hastur,” he mocked lightly, earning him a dirty look. “Why did you think he was dead, anyway?”

He realised his mistake instantly when Aziraphale’s eyes went shuttered once more and his shoulders drooped. Crowley felt his heart sink. “In the bar,” the angel explained quietly, after a long moment of silence had settled between them and started gathering dust. “You told me that you- That you’d- lost your best friend,” he managed. 

Understanding shot down Crowley’s spine like lightning, so fast and sharp that he couldn’t help the bark of laughter that escaped him. Across from him, Aziraphale twitched badly, expression flashing with hurt before molding back into a suitably blank mask. Sensing he was at risk of truly offending if he didn’t explain himself right that instant, Crowley forced his bleak amusement down and settled his face into seriousness.

It was long past time he told the angel how he felt, anyway.

“Aziraphale,” he said, lingering on the name, “The best friend I was talking about was _you_. I went to that bar from your bookshop. I thought-” With a suddenness that hurt, he remembered being spilled among the shattered remnants of the place the angel had loved so dearly, the very fires of hell closing in on him, no Aziraphale in sight, and nothing now for him to return to but ashes, and Crowley had to swallow against the echo of despair. “I thought you’d burned with the rest of it. I went there to find you and you were just… You were gone. I couldn’t sense your presence anywhere. The only thing I could feel was a shadow of your panic and then… nothing. That was all that was left.”

It wasn’t until he spoke that Crowley suddenly remembered just why he’d sought out a bar in the first place, and his gaze automatically cast around for a bottle of _something _to wash out the ache in his chest. It was stupid anyway because Aziraphale was sitting _right there _and he was just _fine_. There was absolutely no reason to feel like something deep within himself was cracking for the first time in maybe forever - certainly no reason to feel an almost overwhelming sense of grief when the object of that emotion was but an arm’s reach away and watching him with a guarded, careful expression. 

It was stupid. Crowley dropped his head into his hands and breathed. 

He stayed like that even when a gentle hand landed on his shoulder. “Oh my dear,” the angel said, and his voice was just as soft as his touch. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

There was a shuffling noise as Aziraphale knelt beside him, putting himself level with Crowley’s still bowed head. “Of course you would have thought I was gone. I should have known. I should have come back sooner.”

“You didn’t have a body, angel,” Crowley managed to murmur past the stone in his throat. “You came back as soon as you could.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed placidly, “But not soon enough to spare you this.”

“You came back though. S’what matters.”

The hand on his shoulder shifted, cool fingers curling around the nape of his neck and he felt compelled to raise his head to meet Aziraphale’s gaze. He was closer than he’d realised, barely a scant few inches between them, but the proximity wasn’t threatening - it was a message._ I’m here_, Aziraphale was telling him, _I’m right here_. 

Unable to put his gratitude and relief into words, Crowley merely reached up and squeezed Aziraphale’s wrist. His skin was warm to the touch and Aziraphale smiled.

“I’ll always come back,” the angel promised. “After all, you’re my best friend too.”


End file.
